


Five Times Treize Khushrenada Surrendered (or, This Ain't Hell — But if You Start Walking Now, You Can Get There by Sundown)

by Nanashi Jones (miaoujones)



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Alternate Reality, Conflicted Emotions, Other, Pederasty, Pedophilia, Self-Loathing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-25
Updated: 2007-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-19 05:01:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miaoujones/pseuds/Nanashi%20Jones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Afterwards, in the moments before he falls into dreamless sleep in his own bed, Treize wonders how much it would hurt to have his own tongue cut out, and if the pain would be worse than the taste that lingers now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Treize Khushrenada Surrendered (or, This Ain't Hell — But if You Start Walking Now, You Can Get There by Sundown)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a tale, told with no intention to condone or glamorize, of a reluctant sexual predator. While there are no graphic or explicit descriptions of any sexual activity and no physical force or coercion is used, the age of attraction for the main character ranges from 3 to 15. 
> 
>  
> 
> As indicated in the tags, I consider this an alternate reality. Treize is my favorite GW character and this is not what I think of him or how I see him in canon at all, but he best fit the challenge that a certain Anon put to me.

**oh one**

Born and bred for it, Treize was thirteen when he joined the military—a full decade older than the child they are watching play at field stripping a revolver like he's putting the square block through the square hole of a plastic toy. 

As the doctor in charge of this program drones on about the benefits of beginning the training at this early age, acclimating the children to the environment so that they will be incapable of questioning it when they are grown soldiers rather than trying to reprogram their young adult minds, Treize cannot help but wonder at the morality of the program. Not only on an individual level for the children involved, but for society and humanity as a whole. He wonders if what they are really trying to do is strip humanity from these future soldiers. He wonders if a time will come when wars will be carried out entirely by mechanical creations; if all humanity is lost from war, how soon after that will humanity be lost from other things, until humanity itself has been lost?

Treize wonders but holds his tongue. He would have spoken up as recently as three years ago, when he was a hot-headed fifteen. He knows he can't say anything now, not if he wishes to rise to the level he needs to, to effect any real change. But when the rest of the group moves on to the next project demonstration, Treize lingers behind. He watches the child through the two-way mirror for another minute or so before entering the room.

The child looks up guardedly but when his eyes light on the military insignia on Treize's uniform, he relaxes again and returns his attention to the gun his tiny hands are wrapped around. When Treize kneels down beside him, the child looks up only to smile before refocusing on the gun. Treize wonders how the child would react to not just presence but touch. He lays his hand lightly on the boy's head, which stays bent to its task; stays bent when Treize lets his fingertips slide deeper into the dark muss of hair. The boy doesn't react when Treize lets his hand slide back, out of the boy's hair, down to his nape; he keeps working on the gun as Treize skims down along his spine. Treize wonders how the boy would respond if he put his hand under the boy's shirt. As he rubs up over the spine now, the boy's skin warm beneath his palm, the boy hums but makes no other response. Treize slips his hand around front, still under the shirt, to rub the boy's belly; the hum goes breathy and light, then resumes steadily, the boy's hands still working over the gun. Treize continues stroking, watching the boy's tiny fingers fumbling with parts and pieces, feeling the pleasure vibrate in the boy's belly when something clicks into place. He feels a pleasure vibrate in his own belly, and lower…

The child looks up curiously when Treize stands abruptly. Treize is sure the child is playing with the gun again even before he reaches the door; he doesn't look back to find out. 

He doesn't look at himself in the bathroom mirror as he washes his hands before rejoining the group.

 

**oh two**

Treize is not lost. He has merely taken a wrong turn, and then another wrong turn. The streets look different in the dusk, which is to say that they look more alike to each other than they did in broad daylight. Now Treize comes to a full stop. Not because he doesn't want to take the next wrong turn, though certainly there is little appeal in that; but he stops now because the hairs on the back of his neck have prickled to attention. 

He whirls, dropping to a crouch, hand automatically seeking the weapon in his hip holster—and catching another hand. A small one. One belonging to the child he now finds himself face to face with. Treize remains crouched, staring into the face, which stares back wide-eyed. Finally, Treize says, "What are you doing?"

The child shrugs. "I don't know." Another shrug, this time a backwards tug with the hand Treize declines to release. "Nothing."

As Treize stands, he reflects that children's voices and bodies are still gender neutral at this age, which Treize guesses to be five or six. This one's lack of shirt and long tangle of hair, likely more from neglect than from fashion, give no clue as to whether the would-be pickpocket is a little girl or a little boy. "Does your mother know you're out here this late?"

"I don't got a mother," the child says, grabbing its own arm below Treize's hold and giving another tug. "Hey, mister, can you let me go now?"

Treize loosens his fingers. And in the next moment, even as the child's hand is slipping free, the other hand small and quick darts at Treize; and then the hand, the child, and Treize's pocket watch are gone, fleeing down the street.

He gives chase immediately, rounding the corner of an alleyway just in time to catch hold of the lower ankle as the child's leading foot hits the top of the chain link fencing. Treize pulls and the child drops down, turning to face him sullenly and leaning back on the fence, which hardly yields under the slight weight. The watch chain is dangling from the waistband, inside which is tucked the watch itself. Treize holds out his hand and, after an exaggerated sigh, the child reaches in and pulls out the watch, dropping it onto Treize's palm. Then the child's hand goes down to fist in the material at its crotch, tugging down and then tugging back up, all bunched up.

"What are you doing now?" Treize demands.

Another hyperbolic sigh. "I gotta pee."

"Why," Treize can't help asking, "would you try to rob someone when you have to pee?"

"Well, I didn't know I had to pee until now, did I!"

Treize gives the child a long look. The child shifts from foot to foot, though whether it's from bladder pressure or the weight of Treize's stare, Treize cannot say. His eyes flick from the child's face to an unobscured corner of the alley. "You can go there," he says, tilting his head in that direction. If it is a ploy, there will be nowhere for the child to go but over the fence again and Treize is ready for that, even though he can still feel his heart racing slightly from the recent exertion.

"Okay." The child goes to the corner Treize indicated. Hands go to the front to unfasten the button and zipper, and then remain in front, no pulling down of pants, no squatting.

When the boy turns around, he meets Treize's eyes for a moment before sliding his own away. But there's little to look at in the alley and soon enough the boy is looking at Treize again. "What are you gonna do with me?" the boy asks at last. Then pride pushes him into a show of bravura: "You turning me in to the damn cops? Go ahead, I don't care." The boy shrugs. "Cops won't care, either. They won't do nothin' but put me back out here, anyhow."

Treize gives the boy an even longer look this time. This time the boy doesn't shift, he just looks back, chin tilted up to meet Treize's eyes, jaw set in an approximation of a defiant jut. 

"I'll tell you what," Treize says, softening his tone. He holds the watch up by its chain, lets it dangle and spin in the last lingering remnants of light. "I'll give you this, if you unzip your pants again and pull them down a little."

The boy tilts his head, considering. "I don't gotta pee again yet."

"I don't want you to urinate," Treize says. A soft little crinkle appears on the boy's brow, and Treize amends, "I don't want you to pee."

"You just want me to take my pants down?" 

Treize nods.

"And you'll give me that for keeps?" the boy asks, pointing at the watch.

Treize nods again.

The boy chews his lip. Then he says, "Okay." He looks down to undo his pants, button and zipper, and pushes the waistband down to his hips.

"A little lower," Treize says, hushing his tone.

The boy scratches his head. "They'll fall all the way off if I push 'em down more."

"You could spread your feet wider on the ground," Treize suggests. "They wouldn't fall off that way."

The boy tilts and chews again. "Okay," he says at last, and holds out his hand, "but gimme that first."

Treize presses the silver watch into the small hand, then kneels as the boy's feet skate out over the ground.

The dirt will come out of his uniform's knees, but Treize fears he himself will never be clean again.

 

**oh three**

Treize stands at the crest of the last hill; his gaze follows the steep incline down and sweeps in survey over the encampment below. This is his first solo secret mission, a chance to "prove" himself to the brass, to continue on the path he has set for himself, to stop humanity from destroying itself. But that is years ahead; all he has to do right now is negotiate with this band of mercenaries he has been seeking for days, and hire them to carry out some work too dirty for official hands. It has been a long, arduous, and not uncostly journey, but finally he has found their camp. 

Unfortunately, it appears to be deserted. "Hell," Treize mutters.

"No, Sir. But we're not far from it and if you start walking now, you can reach hell by sundown."

Treize looks around at the soft voice, and then down: the boy looks back, his mouth unsmiling, but there is a sparkle in the one eye unobscured by the fall of hair covering half his face. The boy could not yet be ten years old, and Treize is surprised to find one so young here, but they are far too many miles from the nearest city for the boy to be a stray local. He does look at ease, Treize thinks as he studies the boy's demeanor, like he belongs, as incongruous as that strikes Treize.

He tries to keep any incredulity out of his voice. "Are you one of the," he catches himself before he can use the word mercenary, which he has been warned is sometimes taken as an affront, "soldiers here?"

"Well," the boy says, a hint of smile curving his lips to match the spark in his eye this time, "I'm not a whore!"

Treize grins back and the boy says, "Come on, I'll take you down now."

As they make their way down the slope, Treize asks the boy his name. The boy smiles fully for the first time: "I don't have one."

Inside one of the tents, the boy introduces him to The Captain, who gives no other name. Treize offers no name himself and, with that understanding, they commence negotiations. Not long into it, The Captain turns to the boy, who is sitting behind him cross-legged and, giving him a word of praise for a job well done, dismisses him. A fractious look flashes across the boy's face but he quickly rearranges his features and, with a nod to all, exits the tent.

"He's a charming boy."

The Captain says nothing in response for a moment. Then, breaking the silence but not the look he is giving Treize, he says, "That charming boy could have you on the ground before you even felt the knife."

"Indeed," Treize says lightly. Smiles: "You've given him excellent training."

"All boys should be able to protect themselves," The Captain says, holding the look another moment. Then he lights a cigarette, offers one to Treize, passes the pack around to the mercenaries remaining with them in the tent, and resumes negotiations.

As they continue on into the night, Treize notices the boy lingering in the shadows just outside the tent flap. When he is sure no one is looking at either of them, Treize catches the boy's eye and winks. 

Finally, all terms have been agreed upon, all necessary details passed to each side. The stars have shifted to a pattern of the earliest morning hours, so The Captain generously offers Treize use of a tent at the edge of camp, and Treize graciously accepts.

Although the boy had seemed to disappear after the wink, Treize is unsurprised to find him still lingering outside the tent. Treize smiles at him as he passes by. 

A few moments later, he startles slightly when he finds the boy has caught up silently and fallen into step with him. Treize looks ahead again and they walk without speaking. Then the boy says, "Thanks." They come to a stop outside Treize's tent and, when their eyes meet, the boy goes on, "For not telling them I was there. They never let me listen to that stuff. Sometimes they give me respect, but sometimes they act like they think I'm still a little kid."

The night shimmers bright and dark across the boy's serious features. "But you're not," Treize says.

The boy shakes his head and then pauses, lower lip swelling to a slight pout as he tries to reason through the double negative of word and gesture; he nods now, but the uncertainty lingers around his mouth. 

"Would you like to celebrate the closing of the agreement?" Treize offers, his voice dropping low and confidential.

"As men do?" the boy asks.

Treize answers only with a nod, and a wide smile flashes on the boy's face. 

The boy follows Treize into the tent, follows Treize in undressing and lying down on top of the bedroll. He mirrors Treize, each of them touching himself; and then the boy's hand reaches, doesn't mirror but follows Treize's hand, follows down...

The boy goes back to the tent he shares with his comrades, goes to sleep a man among men.

Treize does not sleep that night.

 

**oh four**

Applause swells to fill the gap left by the fading piano notes. "Brilliant!" the woman standing next to Treize says to the neighbor on her other side, who goes the praise one better: "He's only twelve, you know—a certifiable prodigy!"

Prodigious the boy's talent may be but, in Treize's considered opinion, it was not in evidence tonight. He holds his tongue, a talent of his own that he has been cultivating and perfecting during his rise to the top, and moves away as the crowd disperses thickly back into the party. 

The stars are dwarfed by the floodlights scattered around the grounds, but at least the air out here is fresh. Treize takes up position at the opposite end from the balcony's one other occupant and looks at what he can see of the constellations, absently swirling the contents of his champagne flute.

Although he is aware that he has become an object of fidgeting attention, Treize doesn't turn until the boy speaks: "Did you hear me play?"

"I did." Treize raises the glass for a sip.

"So didn't you think I was _marvelous_ ," the boy leans on a couple of words he has clearly heard repeatedly tonight, "and _brilliant_?"

"Quite frankly," Treize says, "I did not."

The boy's face goes blank before his brow scrunches, his eyes and mouth tighten. "Don't you know who I am?" Hardly waiting for a response, the boy continues, "This is _my father's_ party."

"Indeed," Treize agrees. "That, however, has no bearing on your performance tonight."

The boy slides off the railing to lean against the wall, arms folded over his chest. "What was wrong with it, then?"

Since the boy has asked, Treize tells him. As his critique goes on, the boy starts to nod, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. When Treize finishes, the boy lets a full grin flash. "You sure know your stuff, Old Man."

"I'm twenty-seven," Treize says, one eyebrow arching, "but thank you."

The boy relaxes his arms, letting them fall to his side, pressing the palms to the wall behind him as he rocks himself lightly. "I did all that on purpose, you know."

"Ah." Treize takes another sip. "I suspected as much."

The boy positively beams now. "Did you? Because I thought maybe you got it when you were talking, but I wasn't sure." Treize raises his glass again, tipping it high to spill the last sip into his mouth and down his throat, and the boy goes on with confidential confidence, "I'm pretty good on piano when I try, but I'm actually much better on violin. I mean, I'm _really_ good." The light of inspiration spreads from the boy's eyes to his face. "Do you want to hear me? I mean, we could ditch these losers and go up to my room, and I'll play for you."

"I would like nothing better," Treize replies, setting down his empty glass on the balcony railing. He picks up another, his fourth of the evening, on the way to the back staircase.

In the boy's room, Treize sits on the edge of the bed. The boy stands in the center of the room, violin nestled between shoulder and chin, fingers set, bow raised. He takes a deep breath and, eyes closed, lets it out as he draws the bow across the strings for the first note. Shocks of blond hair fall into his face and fly away again as he sways with the tempestuous swell he is creating.

When he finishes, the boy sets down his instrument and comes to sit on the bed, one leg tucked beneath him as he faces Treize, the other dropped over the side. "How did you like that?" he asks, slightly flushed, breath a little heavy.

It was a rousing piece, and well played; Treize's own breath is a little quicker. "I liked it very much," he tells the boy honestly and the boy flushes a little more with the sincerity of the compliment. "Your fingering, in particular, is most impressive."

"Yeah," the boy flashes a grin, "I'm pretty good at fingering!"

Treize flashes, too, on an image of the boy's fingers playing over something other than violin strings.

"What?" the boy demands, studying his face.

Treize smiles. "Nothing."

"Oh, fuck you." The boy rolls his eyes and gets off the bed. "I thought you were different, but you're just like every other adult who doesn't get how much I do get."

"Fine, then," Treize says, not wanting to be like every other disappointing adult in the boy's life; the boy is one of the ones he wants to make the world a better place for, after all. "I was just wondering what else you are good at fingering."

He regrets the words immediately but it is too late to hold his tongue this time.

The boy doesn't say anything at first and for a moment Treize breathes easy. But then the boy says, "I know how to masturbate, if that's what you mean," and Treize's chest tightens again.

"Can you ejaculate?" he asks in a normal conversational tone, too late for hush and quiet and softness this time.

The boy nods, his flush deepening again as he grins. "Yeah."

Maybe the boy is a bit of a prodigy, after all. Treize doesn't tell him so, though. Instead, he says, casual, conversational, "Show me."

So the boy does. 

Afterwards, in the moments before he falls into dreamless sleep in his own bed, Treize wonders how much it would hurt to have his own tongue cut out, and if the pain would be worse than the taste that lingers now.

 

**oh five**

The first time Treize sees this boy, he knows this is the one who will undo him completely, the one who will prove his undoing. As he stands before Treize in Treize's own chambers, this boy reminds him of nothing so much as his own teenaged self, full of belief and ideals, words burning with furious passion from his tongue. 

The swordfight, as heartracing and breathtaking and riskthrilling as it is, can hardly be called fair; thirty year old Treize has every physical advantage over his fifteen year old counterpart, and it is not long before he has this boy at swordpoint. Treize could kill him now; he sees in this boy's eyes that this boy knows it, eyes glittering dark and yet unflinching. Treize holds this boy's life at the tip of his blade, holds that life in his very hands, hands and blade as unwavering as this boy's stare. 

Treize could kill this boy now. He could do anything he wanted to this boy. Anything, oh, anything...

Treize steps back, his blade up. When this boy doesn't move immediately, Treize says, "I'm letting you go."

"The next time we meet," this boy promises, eyes glittering, glittering, "I will kill you."

It is a promise this boy is destined to keep, if not on their next meeting then eventually. For Treize knows that one day, he will lose either his life or his immortal soul to Chang Wufei.


End file.
